Happiness: We Rarely Feel It. I Would

Not A Softness Anywhere About Me, Only Whalebone And Brocade.

Life Is A Stream On Which We Strew Petal By Petal The Flower Of Our Heart; The End Lost In Dream, They Float Past Our View, We Only Watch Their Glad, Early Start. Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose; Their Widening Scope, Their Distant Employ, We Never Shall Know. And The Stream As It Flows Sweeps Them Away, Each One Is Gone Ever Beyond Into Infinite Ways. We Alone Stay While Years Hurry On, The Flower Fared Forth, Though Its Fragrance Still Stays.

Moon! Moon! I Am Prone Before You. Pity Me,and Drench Me In Loneliness.

Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.